


White Summer

by MissViolet



Series: Days of My Youth [1]
Category: Led Zeppelin, Rock Music RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Falling In Love, M/M, Marijuana, Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Rivers, Rowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25149433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissViolet/pseuds/MissViolet
Summary: In the summer of 1968, Robert Plant joins Jimmy Page’s new band, and sparks fly.
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Robert Plant
Series: Days of My Youth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873966
Comments: 19
Kudos: 45





	1. Pangbourne

**Author's Note:**

> Filthy, shameless porn follows a long intro. Don't say you weren't warned.

There were the usual 12 people in the audience; college birds and their arty-looking boyfriends, the night’s proceeds barely enough to cover the cost of petrol. Maybe it was the band’s unpronounceable name, but even Robert’s earlier bands with catchier names had failed to take off. He’d cut a couple of singles that were pretty good, but went nowhere, and Tony Secunda had him down to London for an audition that went nowhere, and it looked like tonight’s gig would also go nowhere. 

Robert did his best anyway, belting out the West Coast hippy ballads the college kids recognized and liked. You never knew whose dad might be a record company executive. They were just easing into his best number, “Somebody to Love,” when two older men slipped in the back door. The bearded one in the suit and Homburg hat was simply enormous, tall and fat, and he looked like a bloke you wouldn’t want to cross. Briefly Robert wondered if he owed someone money. He had been living hand-to-mouth lately. But no, the other was a tall ascetic-looking man with pale skin and a fall of dark hair to his shoulders. He also looked like a guy you wouldn’t want to cross, but for different reasons than his enormous friend. He wore a bottle-green corduroy jacket and a purple paisley silk scarf knotted into an enormous bow at his throat. There was intensity to his gaze that lessened the effect of his poncey togs. Not like a dunner or bill-collector, but like he’d put a hex on you or something. 

He did his usual shimmy up to the microphone, tossed his hair, sang out

_Your eyes, I say your eyes may look like his  
Yeah but in your head, baby  
I'm afraid you don't know where it is_

He noticed the catlike smile on the dark-haired man’s face. Oh, he knew he was good. He knew he could sing, it was just a matter of finding the right band to back him. There was a burning fire in his belly to put some of that wild blues magic into the world, but so far all he’d done was lay down half the asphalt on West Bronwich and sponge off his pretty girlfriend. 

He saw the two men whispering among themselves as the song came to an end. Then they slipped out as quietly as they had come. Well, that was that. Silly of him to think they might be Secunda’s men, or some kind of talent scouts. He tried not to be too disappointed as they wrapped up their set, as he took his measly two quid cut of the ticket sales. 

To his surprise, there was a telegram waiting for him at the pub where he lived in a bed-sit above the tavern room. A telegram! It usually meant bad news, but this one was from Peter Grant who called himself a “music executive” and invited him to come down to London to audition for the New Yardbirds. New? He didn’t even rate the old Yardbirds too well. He thought they were a pop band, big in America, and there was that one song about the train that he kind of knew, it was a bit catchy, but not his thing. He was a bluesman. 

He thought of crumpling up the telegram and tossing it on principle, but he knew he would not turn down the chance of paying work. Instead he smoothed it carefully and left it on his dresser under a pile of coins. He wished he had enough to go downstairs for a pint, but the rent was due tomorrow, and he couldn’t even spare one of the coins. Sighing and feeling just a bit sorry for himself, he kicked off his boots and jeans and fell into bed. At least he could lie in, for it was a bank holiday weekend and he would be spared the hot tarry work with the road crew for a few days. He fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

Someone was pounding on the door. “Robbie! Telephone for ya, boyo!” the landlord shouted. 

Robert groaned and looked at the clock. It was only 8:00 a.m. The landlord did not take messages. “Coming!” he shouted, and stepped into his leather thong sandals, throwing on his dressing gown. He went down to the pub’s call box, positioned right next to the loo, and picked up the handset.

“Robert Plant!” a voice on the other end boomed. “This is Peter Grant. I’m a music executive down in London.”

“Did you send me a telegram?”

“The very same. They call you the Wild Man of the Black Country.”

There was a long pause. “Did you telephone just to tell me that?” Robert asked. 

“No. Jimmy Page would like to audition you for this band he’s putting together. The New Yardbirds. Can you come down to London today? Talk to him a bit, get to know each other. Then hit the studio tomorrow.”

Robert agreed, though he had no idea who Jimmy Page was and only the vaguest sense of the old Yardbirds, much less what the New Yardbirds might constitute. He took down Page’s address, in Berkshire, outside of London. It sounded tony. It would be a couple of trains, and then a long walk, to this bloke’s crib. 

Grant asked him if he knew any drummers, and he told him about Bonzo’s show in North London, told him to go check him out but also warned him he was making good scratch with Tim and might not be open to any other offers. 

He packed a canvas duffel with a clean shirt, pyjamas, shaving kit. He hoped this Page cat would let him crash or he else he would have to find a fleabag hotel to spend the night, because he was spending nearly his last bit of jack on train fare. 

The walk through Pangbourne from the station was actually pleasant, the village quaint, and the path taking him along the cool, breezy Thames, where elegant gingerbread houses perched above the river reflecting an impossibly blue sky. Pensioners sunning themselves on the porches glared at his long hair and jeans, and one old codger actually yelled and shook his cane at him, but he didn’t mind. Possibility had lifted his spirits, put a spring in his step. 

He was even more cheered by the sight of Page’s house: a big peaked-roofed, double-terraced Tudor cottage built right over the river. The cat must have some bread. He strode up to the front door. It was wooden and painted blue with a rounded top, like a door to a fairy-tale cottage. He rapped on it with the brass knocker shaped like a dragon’s head. 

Nothing happened for a long while, and he was about to knock again when the door abruptly opened. There was the dark-haired wiry fellow from the college gig, wearing, of all things, a purple smoking jacket and pink velvet high-waisted trousers. 

“I’m so glad you came!” he said in a soft, posh accent as he threw the door wide open. He gave Robert a shy smile, and Robert grinned back. Under his jacket he wore a white shirt with lace spilling at the sleeve, and knotted around his neck was a wildly-patterned purple silk scarf. On his narrow little feet were scarlet velvet pumps. Robert had never seen anyone dressed quite like that. On anyone else the Teddy togs would have looked utterly twee and poncey, but there was a burning masculine intensity to the man, an undercurrent of danger, of aggression. Robert couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but he was intrigued.

He shook his hand, and his moss-green eyes swept Robert’s tightly-fitted tee shirt and snug jeans approvingly. Robert followed him through the open door and into a narrow, dark corridor that led to the back of the house. They emerged in a wide, airy room that opened right out onto a terrace perched over the river, with elaborately carved wooden furniture and a porch swing under a striped awning. The inside was furnished with chintz armchairs and a lace-covered sofa scattered with tapestry pillows. There was an expensive hi-fi, a model train set, a huge white telescope in a place of prominence, looking out across the river. Books and records lined the walls, stacked in bookcases with niches for curious statues and small works of art. Flocked floral wallpaper, and even the carpet was floral. Robert looked around with wonder at the strange crib. 

“Put your bag down anywhere. Let’s have some tea and chat. Feel free to look around while I put the kettle on,” Jimmy said, gesturing to the room. 

Jimmy disappeared into the corridor and Robert stood up to study his surroundings. Compared to the tiny two-room bed-sit he lived in, this was a mansion. It was clear there was something to this Jimmy Page. And he earned it all by playing guitar, and he only a few years older than Robert! Well, if he knew how to make money with music, he was a bloke worth knowing. 

Robert wandered around, reading the titles of the books with approval: Tolkien’s Ring trilogy, the Bhagavad Ghita, _Man, Myth, and Magic_ , History of the English-Speaking Peoples, books on the occult and the mystic Aleister Crowley. He looked at the curious objects mixed in with the books and records; statues of Hindu gods, censers and oil lanterns and little carved fetishes of Buddhas and mermaids in jade and ivory. 

Perched on a block of pure onyx was a curious brass sphere composed of overlapping hoops, with another sphere inside it, an arrow protruding. Robert touched the arrow and was surprised that it moved.

“It’s called an armillary,” said Jimmy, who was suddenly at his side, close enough for him to feel the heat of his body, to catch a whiff of his scent, clean and citrusy. “It’s for astronomical observation. You aim the arrow north, like so,” he said, touching it, brushing against Robert’s hand in a way that didn’t seem entirely accidental. Robert felt a curious electric undercurrent, a quickening of the blood. Jimmy looked at him with half-lowered eyelids, as if daring him to say something. “Then the median is moved to the same angle as your latitude, which is 51 degrees.” His delicately-shaped hands adjusted the rings, and Robert watched, fascinated. “Then these rings represent the equator, the solstices and equinox. And the arrow points to the North Star. When it gets dark, I will show it to you through my telescope. “

Robert found himself utterly charmed by his handsome dark-haired host, and impressed by his intellectual curiosity, the openness of his mind. Clearly he was a smart one, in addition to being musically talented and, by Robert’s standards, he was positively rich. As much as he loved his Black Country friends, they were not big readers, nor inclined to star-gaze at night. He found Jimmy’s company invigorating. 

“Let me show you something else. This is a real kicker.” Jimmy led him over to a corner where a large red metal barrel-shaped object was perched on its own stand. “It’s called a Mutoscope. Put your eyes there,” he said, indicating the narrow slit at the top. Robert peeked in. Jimmy turned a crank on the side. And old-fashioned miss wearing 1920s underwear danced on the screen. She had a svelte figure. Then she dropped her drawers and stood there in nothing but a healthy smile, waggling her plump and shapely bottom. The picture came to an end and Robert looked up, mouth open in delight. Jimmy gave him a cheeky smile. “Cakesy, isn’t she?” he said, winking. The kettle whistled and he disappeared back into the kitchen.

What was that about? Robert wondered, as he walked around the room, There was a frisson, a skipped heartbeat, suspended breath, when Jimmy had appeared unexpectedly close to him. The brush of his hand, the soft and inviting look in his eyes, that wink…. he tried to tell himself it was nothing, but his body simply didn’t agree. Some unspoken physical connection was already there. 

Jimmy’s pad had a Victorian explorer’s den vibe. There were dark oil paintings, a globe on a stand, a bleached-out stag’s skull. Potted trees in tubs and vases of fresh flowers. What kind of bloke brought in fresh flowers for himself, he wondered. He pulled a long-stemmed rose from a vase, held it up to his nose to catch its sweet scent. 

“Let’s have it on the deck,” Jimmy said, reappearing with a tea tray. Silent as a cat, he had again surprised Robert by appearing suddenly beside him. He gently took the rose from his hand and laid it on the tray. Then he led him outdoors to the wooden deck and placed the tea tray on a richly-carved wooden table. There was something gallant about the way he pulled a chair out and gestured for Robert to sit there. 

Jimmy had brewed the tea in a blue-and-white china pot, no ready-made bags for him, but loose tea, and there were matching cups and sugar-pot and creamer. A plate of digestive biscuits and a wedge of seed-cake. Buttered toast and a pot of marmalade. It all seemed special and fancy to Robert, who had been expecting nothing more than PG Tips in a cracked mug. The river breeze was refreshing, the tea service dainty and elegant, the rose laid on the tray just for his enjoyment. He smiled with pleasure as Jimmy poured him a fragrant cup of steaming tea, and handed him a plate he had piled high with toast and biscuits and cake. 

Jimmy sipped his tea while Robert ate heartily. He was not positioned to turn down a good solid tea and happily smeared marmalade on his toast, had second helpings of seed cake. Jimmy watched him eat, just watched. It was a curious scene. They had said very little, and so far Robert had done nothing more than eat quite a lot of his food, but Jimmy seemed comfortable in the silence. He poured him more tea, offered him a fag. They sat and looked at the river, smoking peaceably.

“What I’m trying to do here with this new group,” he said after a long while, “is to create a feeling of light and shade, soft and hard, calm and ferocious,” he said. “You dig?” He looked at him with his tawny green eyes, blew smoke from his mouth in a narrow stream. 

Robert found himself staring at the gold flecks in his beautiful eyes, at his pouty, finely-sculpted lips. “Er, yeah, man, yeah,” he said, though he didn’t get it, not really. 

“I saw your friend Bonham at the gig in London. He’s just what I’m looking for. But he’s an elusive one. We sent him forty telegrams. No answer.”

“Well, that sounds like Bonzo,” said Robert. “Want me to have a chat with him, try to explain what you’re putting together?”

“Would you do that for me?” said Jimmy eagerly. “Would you give him a bell right now, ask him to come in town tomorrow and meet us at the studio?” 

“I should warn you he’s getting forty quid a week with Tim. Also Joe Cocker and Chris Farlowe have been sniffing around,” said Robert, trying to keep the envy out of his voice. “He might just tell me to sod off.”

“Forty, eh? And Joe Cocker,” Jimmy said musingly. “Maybe too rich for our blood. Can this bloke Bonzo drive a van? We could offer him another 25 quid to be our driver.”

“Bonzo? He can’t drive for shite. He doesn’t even have a permit,” said Robert, laughing at the very idea.

“He can learn,” said Jimmy confidently. “Call him up, tell him we can pay 50 quid a week.” He led him to a little alcove in which there was an old-fashioned white telephone with gold fittings on a little gilded table, with a matching stool padded in white velvet. It looked fit for a princess. “Ask him to be at the Gerrard Street Studios tomorrow at 3:00 p.m.,” he urged. 

Robert dialed Bonzo’s mum’s house. He lived in a caravan in the back with Pat and the boy. ”Mrs. Bonham?” he said. “Would you fetch John for me? Sorry, love, it’s important.”

“It always is,” she grumbled, but went away, and after a long while, Bonzo came on the line.

“It’s Planty. Listen, has some bloke Peter Grant been sending you telegrams?”

“Yah, bout a hundred of them, plus one from you, you daft bugger,” said Bonzo gruffly. “I have a good gig with Tim so you and your New Yardbirds can just fuck off,” he said amiably.

“They’re offering fifty quid a week,” said Robert, omitting the part about Bonzo driving the van. 

There was a long pause. “Tim is a bit of a tosser,” Bonzo admitted. It was the first chink in the armor. He knew Bonzo was interested. It wasn’t just the money. He was known for leaving bands, as well as for getting kicked out. He was a talented drummer, otherworldly, in fact, but he hadn’t quite found the right band that fit his style. Robert gave him the Gerrard Street studio address and told him to be on time tomorrow. 

“Any luck?” asked Jimmy when he hung up the phone. 

“He’ll come tomorrow,” he said, though with Bonzo you could never be sure. 

“Good, good,” Jimmy said, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. “The pieces are falling together. Let’s celebrate! Want to twist one up?” Jimmy asked. “Get high?” he added, as if his meaning had been unclear.

Robert nodded enthusiastically and Jimmy carried the tea tray back inside, waved aside Robert’s offer to do the washing-up, telling him that the cleaning lady would come tomorrow. He handed him a heavy jar of greenish stone and a packet of rolling papers. He even had a matching green stone rolling tray. Everything about the man, even his stash, seemed refined and elegant, and Robert was not surprised to open the jar and find it contained richly perfumed Acapulco Gold. 

“Pick out some records to play,” Jimmy called out as he disappeared into a corridor. 

After rolling a generously-sized joint, Robert made himself free of the stacks of LPs that lined the walls, piled horizontally. He was happy to discover Buddy Guy, Elvis, Memphis Minnie, Skip James, the Incredible String Band, and Joan Baez. He pulled out half-a-dozen records. 

When Jimmy returned, he was pleased to see _Joan Baez in Concert_ at the top of the stack. “That’s a good one,” he said approvingly. “I want to talk to you about this one.” He unsleeved all the records and carefully stacked them on the turntable. It was one of those fancy ones with a mechanical arm to change the records automatically. He put the Baez record on top. Carefully with practiced ease, he set the needle to the particular track. Then he sat down on the lace-covered sofa and patted the cushion invitingly, without any sort of self-consciousness.

“Sit down, love,” said Jimmy. The endearment slipped from his lips easily. “Have a listen with me.” 

Robert felt a perilous leap in his heart. He thought with wonder that Jimmy was making advances. Worse, he knew he would return them, return them with eagerness. He would be unable to resist; already he was imagining it happening. And bollocksing up the whole paying gig. He wouldn’t even be sorry, not if it meant he could kiss that sweet rosy mouth. His visceral attraction to the guitarist was an unexpected but somehow not unwelcome turn of events. 

Joan Baez wailed “Babe, I’m Gonna Leave.” Jimmy lit the joint, puffed on it with undisguised relish, then held it out. Robert sat next to him and took the joint. Their fingers brushed. This time he was sure it was no accident. He felt again that invisible undercurrent of attraction. He tried to tamp it down but his damned treacherous body was responding to something about his mysterious host. It was like a hint of electricity, a sound that only his sensitive ears could hear. His foppish clothing, his silent and graceful walk, the dark hair falling like a shadow over his pale cheeks, his golden-flecked eyes, his lips, oh, those lips, no man should have such indecently red and pouty lips. 

He wasn’t even thinking about the song, so when Jimmy asked him what he thought, he just said _groovy_ in a non-committal way. 

“I was thinking like this,” said Jimmy, handing him the joint and getting up to lift the needle off the turntable. He retrieved an acoustic guitar, sat in one of the chintz armchairs and began to strum “Babe, I’m Gonna Leave.” Lightly and delicately at first, his fingers unbearably precise, inexplicably making Robert shiver. Suddenly he crashed in on the second first with fierce and grinding notes, transforming the soft ballad into hard and dirty blues. Then, as Robert’s heart thumped, he reverted back to the soft and pleasing notes. To his delight, Jimmy sang softly in a sweet choirboy voice

_Oh, I can hear it callin 'me_  
_I said don't you hear it callin' me the way it used to do?_  
_Ooooh…._

More fierce and grinding verses, alternating with the tender and lyrical, and Robert’s heart skittered in his ribcage. He could not believe how good this bloke was, his fingers flying up and down the neck of the guitar, making the notes rise and fall, alternating between light and dark, hard and soft, until finally the last note trailed off, seeming almost to float across the room and out to the river bathed in moonlight. 

Jimmy put down the guitar. His face was glistening with exertion, damp curls sticking to his cheeks, which only made him look more alluring. “You dig?” he asked again.

“Yeah, yeah, I do! It’s great!” Robert said enthusiastically. 

“That’s what I mean,” said Jimmy, sparking the joint again and taking a long toke. He talked a little more about light and dark, about other songs he wanted to cover, “You Shook Me,” and “Train Kept A-Rolling,” but Robert was zoning out, floating peacefully in the dark night air above the Thames. The records played one after another, Willie Dixon, Joni Mitchell, Bukka White, Eddie Cochran, Elvis. Every once in a while Jimmy pointed out a song he’d like to cover, a riff he particularly liked, and Robert began to understand all his earlier talk of hard and soft, the contrast he was aiming for in the music. He did more listening than talking, lulled by Jimmy’s soft, crisp, deliciously proper voice. 

“You can crash here, man,” said Jimmy, and his voice sounded faraway. He got up, closed the screen door that led out to the terrace, locked it. “You look like you might be halfway there. Come on, you can pick a bedroom. I have five.” He picked up Robert’s canvas bag and carried it towards the stairs.

He led him up for an impromptu tour of the upstairs. One after another, he opened doors and pointed out bedrooms fitted out with antique furniture, silken coverlets, rich jacquard drapes. Each was wallpapered in a different color: scarlet, robins’ egg blue, bottle green, butter yellow. The blue room had a bed with a carved wooden headboard like a sleigh, covered with a powder-blue eiderdown quilt embroidered with silver stars. The scarlet room had a bed with drawers built underneath it, and in the yellow room, the bed was formed by an alcove that extended out over a window. 

“This one’s mine. It’s a bit untidy,” Jimmy said, leading him into a room with peacock-tail wallpaper and an actual canopy bed, a carved wooden four-poster, each corner embellished into the most fantastic forest animal and bird designs, with scarlet tapestries hanging down. The coverlet was richly embroidered maroon jacquard, turned back to expose rumpled snow-white sheets and pillowcases. At the foot of the bed was a red velvet tufted sofa, and there was a matching boudoir chair and a small wooden desk carved and capped with silver embellishments. Indian parchment prints depicting gods and goddesses playing musical instruments hung on the walls.

The room was lush and sexy, and Robert wanted very much to spend the night there, with Jimmy next to him in that big luxurious bed. He found it impossible not to think about that blue-black hair fanned out on the pillows as he gazed at the sumptuous white sheets where Jimmy laid his dark and lovely head.

“So which do want to sleep in?” asked Jimmy, leading him back into the hallway.

 _Yours_ , he resisted the urge to say. “The blue one,” said Robert. It was also the one crowded with Jimmy’s guitars. He had a perverse desire to share a room with the instruments, as if he could gain something of the mysterious essence of the man by doing so.

“That’s my favorite one, too!” Jimmy said, pleased. “The loo is just down the hall. Have you got pyjamas?” he asked him solicitously. Robert smiled. He was such a gracious host, he was tempted to answer _No_ , just for the pleasure of sleeping in Jimmy’s clothing. But he simply nodded without admitting that in fact he always slept nude. 

“Good-night, Robert,” he said, sounding oddly formal. “Sleep tight, mate.”

“Thank you,” Robert said, retreating into the blue room. He peeled off his tee shirt and fetched his kit from his bag. He could hear Jimmy walking around downstairs, locking up and turning off the lights. He went to the bathroom, the most luxurious he had ever seen. Black marble and polished brass, a deep bathtub with clawed feet, the WC discreetly tucked in the alcove. He brushed his teeth in the sink shaped like a scallop’s shell. The faucet was a swan’s neck, with the water spouting from its beak. Then he had a long piss in the beautiful marble toilet, washed his hands and face, and ran a comb through his thick curls before giving up on untangling them. 

A crack of light was visible under Jimmy’s bedroom door. It was just next to the blue room where he was sleeping. Why this should matter to him, he did not know, but he couldn’t stop thinking of his nearness was as he climbed into bed and switched off the light. His mind was whirling with possibilities, with Jimmy’s fine eyes, his raven’s wing hair, the cherry lips, and most of all, the way he had coaxed those soulful, heart-wrenching notes from his guitar, his soft voice singing _babe, babe, babe_. 

His irrational cock hardened. He thought of all the occult books on the shelves, and wondered for a brief moment if he had been charmed, hexed. But no, the more obvious explanation was that he was besotted with the most delicately beautiful man he had ever seen, who played guitar so sweetly and wickedly, a fallen, unrepentant angel. 

The more he tried not to think of Jimmy, the more his heated thoughts turned to him: his elegant, finely-shaped hands, his moss-green eyes, the blue-black hair waving over his narrow shoulders. That sweet, sinful mouth. His cock nodded against his belly. He kicked aside the sheets and took himself in hand. Just a quick one, to help him sleep. He stroked his hard and dripping cock, moaning softly so as not to be overheard. He was half-afraid he might cry out his name, _Jimmy Page, Jimmy Page_. 

In the darkness, his eyes picked out the shape of Jimmy’s Telecaster. In his stoned mind he had the fanciful notion that the guitar was watching him, feeling his irresistible attraction, the pull he felt towards its master. He turned his face into the pillow to muffle his sighs, but the pillow had the same crisp and citrusy scent of Jimmy himself, sending a throb of pleasure throughout his delighted frame. He thought of Jimmy’s lips covering his own, teasing open his mouth, tonguing him, and what if those pretty lips were wrapped around his cock? What if his fingers were tangled in the glossy black curls, urging him, forcing him to suck faster? 

His breath came fast with excitement at his naughty fantasy. He could practically feel the hot wet suction, the silk of Jimmy’s dark hair threaded through his fingertips. His hand was fast upon himself, and he bit his lip to keep himself quiet as the first lightning-bolts of his self-induced pleasure shook his frame. His legs trembled and his breath came fast as with a thump-thump-thump of his heart, his big hard cock throbbed out its juices, soaking his belly and thighs. He moaned softly as he spurted, first the big hard leg-shaking jets, then the little drops that throbbed and pulsed until his bollocks were drained and his cock softened.

His lust was satisfied, but not his fascination with the man. He looked around the room at the dark shape of his guitars lining the walls of the room. It was his guitar-playing that had so enchanted him. He felt a musical pull, a connection, and was eager to sing with Jimmy, to exploit that connection creatively. Tomorrow. For now he was absolute lethargic with the release, and barely managed to mop himself off with his dirty tee-shirt before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	2. The Fifth Element

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the summer of 1968, Robert Plant joins Jimmy Page’s new band, and sparks fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filthy, shameless porn follows a long intro. Don't say you weren't warned.

When he awoke the next morning, the ormolu clock on the night-stand said 10:30. He was not usually a late sleeper but the intense Acapulco Gold had knocked him out. He put on a pair of boxer shorts for modesty’s sake and padded off to the bathroom to do his morning ablutions.

There was a scent of coffee and frying bacon in the air, and he followed his nose down the stairs and through the narrow corridors until he came upon a bright and sunny kitchen, with big mullioned windows facing a grassy yard. Jimmy was standing at the stainless steel stove, frying bacon in a pan, clad only in a green towel tucked around his waist, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Good morning!” he said cheerfully. “Sleep all right?”

“Yes, thank you,” he said, trying not to stare at his lean chest, his rippled abdomen, the fine sprinkling of dark hair just below his collarbone. His freshly-shampooed hair curled about his shoulders. Jimmy returned his stare with a bold gaze, eyes raking up and down his body. Robert remembered with embarrassment that he was also shirtless.

“Watch these while I put some clothes on,” said Jimmy, handing him a spatula. He put his half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray. “Don’t let those rashers burn,” he said, disappearing upstairs. 

They were almost done, deep pink slabs of Irish back bacon. On the counter were a stack of buttered toast, a bowl of sautéed mushrooms, and a carton of large brown eggs. A pot of baked beans bubbled on the stove.

Robert poked at the rashers, picked up the cigarette Jimmy had left, fitted it to his own mouth with a secret thrill, the cigarette that had only just been clasped in Jimmy’s sweet pouty lips. 

Jimmy returned, clad in red-and-green striped stovepipe pants and a loose white shirt with flowing sleeves, left unbuttoned. He took no notice of Robert smoking his cigarette. “Want some tea? I’m having coffee,” he said.

“Tea, please,” and Jimmy put the kettle on, reclaimed the spatula. He slipped the rashers onto a platter and began to crack some eggs into the pan. “Two eggs for you? Or three?”

“Two is fine.” Robert was impressed by Jimmy’s mastery at the stove. It was a proper fry-up. Jimmy expertly cooked the eggs until the whites were firm and the yolks still runny. He slid them onto the platter, too, added the mushrooms and the stack of toast, and poured the beans into a bowl. The kettle was boiling and he poured the water over the loose tea in the same blue-and-white teapot he had used last night. Then he arranged everything on the round wrought-iron table, brought two plates warm from the oven, a dish of fried potatoes, a pot of marmalade, milk jug and sugar bowl. He pulled out a chair for Robert gallantly. 

“Thank you, this is fabulous,” said Robert gratefully. He tucked in eagerly. Jimmy sat across from him, nibbling more delicately on a piece of toast on which he had carefully balanced a fried egg and a rasher. Robert was not so dainty. He ate a pile of toast and eggs and beans and then finished off the egg that Jimmy didn’t want. When they were done, despite Jimmy’s objections, he carefully stacked the dishes in the deep farmhouse sink and filled them with hot and soapy water. Then he wiped off the table, topped off Jimmy’s coffee and his own tea, and accepted the offered cigarette.

“Studio today,” said Jimmy, keenly excited. “I’ve got this fellow John Paul Jones meeting us, he’s a session man like me. Solid bassist. Then your friend Bonzo. You and me make four. It’s going to be grand.”

Privately, Robert hoped that Bonzo would show up. He left bands by simply not showing up, which is probably what he’d do to Tim. 

They finished their smokes and Robert went upstairs to shower and dress. Jimmy followed him into the blue bedroom to retrieve his Telecaster. Robert thought of what he did in that bed last night and unexpectedly felt his cheeks flush. But Jimmy was busy dragging out the case for the guitar from a closet crowded with winter coats and guitar cases and improbably, several lawn chairs. Robert went to help him, holding back the untidy mass so Jimmy could pull out the case he wanted. Then he took his kit and went into the bathroom, leaving Jimmy to pack up his guitar. 

He took the time to shampoo his hair, using some of the fancy French stuff he found in Jimmy’s luxuriant glass shower. Then, with towel about his waist, he shaved carefully. He dressed in his favorite soft stovepipes and a tight-fitting black tee-shirt that he knew showed his physique nicely. Love beads and his leather sandals, and his C-harp and cigs slipped into his pocket, and he was ready to go. Intentionally, he left his overnight bag. Leaving his bag gave him an excuse to return to this house on the river. 

Jimmy had topped off his flowing white shirt with yet another brightly-pattered purple scarf, which he had knotted into a large pussy bow. It might have looked like an affectation on anyone else, but Robert had to admit he wore his flashy clothes with style. So confident in his masculinity that he thought nothing of wearing a floral embroidered blouse or frilly romantic shirt, it was as if Jimmy dared anyone to question his virility. 

He had phoned for a car and driver, and Robert tried not to look impressed as they climbed into the back of a sleek black town-car, Jimmy clutching his guitar case, which he refused to put in the trunk. He shifted it so that it was on the window side, narrowing the gap between them. Robert felt again that quick surge of electricity as Jimmy’s long, velvet-clad leg brushed against his own. He told himself it was surely an accident but there was something about Jimmy’s secret cat-like smile that made his pulse flutter. He steered his mind back to more mundane thoughts, like whether the pound note and handful of coins he had left would see him through today’s adventures.

Jimmy looked out the window, saying very little, occasionally pointing out some historical landmark, an old church, a riverside estate. Robert could sense the excitement simmering just beneath his polished surface. They drew closer to London, the streets becoming narrower, more crowded with cabs and motorbikes and pedestrians. 

When the cab pulled up to the Gerrard Street studio, Robert was relieved to see Bonzo standing in front clutching his drumsticks. Next to him was a slim good-looking long-haired bloke with an angular face, dressed in a flowing paisley shirt, holding an instrument case. Robert wondered if professional musicians all dressed up in these fancy togs for rehearsals. Or maybe that’s how they dressed all the time. He felt slightly under-dressed in his tee-shirt. 

“There’s Jonesy. And that must be your friend Bonzo,” said Jimmy. He leaned into Robert to exit the cab on the curb side, and Robert once again felt that quick thrill of their brief contact. _Keep it together_ , he told himself, _unless you want to keep on laying asphalt_. 

After a round of introductions, they made their way into the basement studio. The padded walls were lined with amplifiers. It was hot and crowded and very small. Bonzo immediately went to check the drum kit. Jonesy and Jimmy unpacked their cases. Robert stood there uncertainly, without anything particular to do. His normal warm-up routine consisted of a couple of shots of whiskey and sometimes a few puffs of a joint. He felt curious excitement, nervousness, anticipation. 

Bonzo began to warm up, and it put Robert at ease. They had played together in the Band of Joy, and he was familiar with his rhythm. Jonesy, for all his quiet demeanor, joined in with a tight and dirty bass line. They were improvising together, already forming a connection.

Jimmy was rolling up his white shirt sleeves, adjusting the strap on his Telecaster. It was painted with brilliantly psychedelic red and green swirling dragon. “Do you all know ‘Train Kept a Rollin’’?” he asked. It was clear to all that he was in charge. 

Robert said he knew the first verse and the chorus. Jonesy said he didn’t know it but would figure it out on the fly. Bonzo merely grunted, but he came in with the drum intro. Jimmy crashed in, grinding out the fierce notes. Then Jonesy, a backbone, filling in the rhythm where Bonzo played along with Jimmy’s lead. 

Robert stood at the mike, eyes closed, trying to remember the cue. Hoping he had the right timing, he sang out

_Aboard a train  
I met a dame  
She was a hipster  
Man a real gone dame_

They were really grooving now, Jimmy’s hard-driving riff urging his voice to greater heights of emotion. He improvised

_Oh, my sweet baby  
I need you so bad_

He pulled out his C harp and surprised everyone with a very credible harmonica solo before launching into the chorus. Jimmy inched closer, playing just a few feet away from him, studying his face intently. Robert realized that Jimmy was looking to him for cues, was letting the song frame around his vocals, and he felt curiously flattered. There was the musical connection he had hoped for, the electrical current that seemed to pass between them. He felt Jimmy’s hard riffs in his very backbone, and their eyes locked together in an intense, intimate moment. They circled around each other, prowling like two caged panthers, or else they were drawn by some invisible connection so close together that their heads touched.

Robert felt his heart rattling around his ribcage. This was more than just grooving together. Bonzo’s timing was perfect, Jonesy’s bass like a madly fluttering heartbeat, and Jimmy coaxing those incredible sounds from his guitar, making it whine and shriek like a woman, improvising hard, dirty, riffs, yet there was the softness, too, the bits when he played quietly and tenderly. The light and shade, as he described it. It was maddeningly beautiful.

Since he didn’t know the rest of the words, he just sang the first verse again, then the chorus, then a few more _oh, mamas and baby, babys_ , before retreating to listen to Jimmy’s lightning-hot solo. The cat had chops, that’s for sure. Bonzo seemed to enjoy keeping up with him, surprising him with his effortless drum accompaniment, occasionally letting loose one of his shouts that meant they were really grooving, while Jonesy plucked out hard, throbbing bass notes, an inscrutable cat-like smile on his face. But Robert had eyes and ears only for Jimmy, whose white shirt was starting to stick to his body in the heat of the basement, whose eyes were closed, mouth parted, deep in musical concentration that looked, to Robert’s heated imagination, a lot like ecstasy. 

When the last note died down, they all looked at each other, grinning madly. It was obvious it was going to work. Nobody even said so; it was taken for granted that they were a unit now. Jimmy asked them what they should play next, and they all looked at Robert. He realized with embarrassment that Jimmy and Jonesy were such seasoned session men that they could play anything, whereas Bonzo was so good that you couldn’t even ask him if he knew a song without getting a dismissive wave of the hand. He could keep time with anything. But if Robert didn’t know the lyrics, he wouldn’t be able to join in, so it was up to him.

“How about ‘Smokestack Lightning’?” he said. They ran through that, and it was just as good as “Train Kept A-Rollin’,” so Robert suggested a few other blues numbers, “Spoonful” and “Crossroads,” and then some of Elvis’ biggest hits, “That’s Alright, Mama” and “Blue Moon.” He was eager to show them that he was more than a blues singer, that he could croon out a love ballad with the best of them. 

“I can see why they call you the Wild Man. Nice work, Rob,” said Jimmy when they had finished. “That light and shade that I was talking about, I can see you have it in your voice.” Robert flushed with pleasure. Jimmy had equally kind words for Jonesy and Bonzo, with whom he was especially pleased. 

As they packed up, Jimmy explained to them all about the pay, his plans to start laying down an album, and the tour dates that were already booked for the New Yardbirds in October. Fifty pounds a week for the Scandinavian tour! Robert was already thinking of using the money to buy a car and maybe get a nicer crib. 

Afterwards they went out for fish and chips to celebrate, sitting at an outdoor café, sharing a mess of crispy fried whitefish and greasy, salty chips washed down with pints of pale ale. They were all buzzing with excitement; it was obvious that there was a life-changing event on the horizon. Jimmy talked a lot about the “fifth element” and “light and shade” and other philosophical ideas. Bonzo grunted in assent; he had taken a shine to the guitarist. Jonesy was quiet and reserved, eating his fish and chips neatly with a fork and knife. Jimmy ate with his fingers, delicately, but with a hearty appetite, licking the salt from his fingers. Robert tried not to watch him eat. He feared that he was sinking into a perilous sort of sexual obsession with the man, but the more he tried to avoid thinking of him, the more his thoughts dwelled. 

Jimmy invited them all out to Pangbourne to stay the night, but Jonesy and Bonzo wanted to get back to their wives and kids. Robert said he’d stay another night, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. Jimmy hailed a taxi as the other two walked off to the Leicester Square tube station. 

The atmosphere inside the taxi was warm and close as they sped through the darkening streets. Jimmy kept one hand possessively leaning against his guitar case. With the other he lightly tapped his fingers against his velvet-clad leg. Robert could feel the excitement simmering beneath his polished surface. “I can’t wait till we can jam again,” he said. “Think Bonzo will come out to the boathouse?”

“Probably. He gave ole Tim the shaft so he’s on board.” 

“Everything is falling together at last,” said Jimmy with satisfaction. They were driving through the narrow winding streets and into the outskirts of London, approaching the Berkshire region. The houses lining the Thames were lit with fairy lights, sparkling in the night, with a full, heavy moon hanging low. It was unbearably romantic. Robert was glad when the cab finally pulled up, for he was afraid he might do something foolish. 

Jimmy brought him around the rear of the house, the river side. “Let’s sit out here for a bit, shall we?” he asked. He keyed into the house through the big glass door; Robert waited out at the railing, looking at the river. 

When Jimmy returned, he was holding a blue glass water pipe shaped like a genii’s lantern and a large white candle. He set the candle down on a small table and dragged it over to the porch swing under the striped awning and patted the seat next to him, “Sit down, love. Have a toke with me.” 

He had said almost the exact same thing yesterday, and it had the same effect on Robert; his heart skipped a beat as he approached, sat next to Jimmy, who lit the candle and the pipe with a silver Dunhill lighter. 

“That was really something else,” said Jimmy. “The minute I heard Bonzo, I knew what kind of music we would create. He was the final piece.” 

“Yeah, he’s tops, for sure. I haven’t told him he has to drive the van, though.”

Their eyes met, and unexpectedly, Jimmy laughed. “Good luck with that one, mate. It was the only way I could justify him making more bread than the rest of you.” He took a long pull of the pipe, passed it back to Robert, blew the smoke in a thin stream from his lips. Even the way he smoked was graceful and elegant. 

Robert tore his eyes away and tried to school his thoughts, but getting high merely made the sensual delight of sitting next to Jimmy Page on a dark summer evening even more appealing. He could feel the heat of his body, or maybe it was only that he was stoned. By candlelight his hair was even more coal-black, his long white fingers even more delicate as they wrapped around the pipe. Robert watched, fascinated, as he put the stem of the pipe in his finely-shaped, cherry-red lips, closed his eyes, and drew on it sensuously. 

He tore his gaze away, feeling his pulse quicken, his cheeks grow warm. Jimmy pushed the toe of his black Cuban heeled-boot against the floor, gently rocking the porch swing in a soothing motion. He could smell the freshness of the river right beneath them. There were an inordinate amount of stars in the sky, along with the big white moon. 

Jimmy held out the pipe to him, and as he took it, their hands touched, and the invisible current of attraction jolted through him. It hadn’t really faded since they left the studio. And the touch wasn’t accidental; Jimmy met his eyes again, as if to be sure that Robert knew he had done it on purpose. 

“That fifth element I was talking about. This is going to be good. I think we have something special,” Jimmy said, leaning back into the cushion, gently rocking the swing with each push of his neat black toe against the deck. “Unless I have misread the situation?” he asked softly. And then he placed his hand lightly on Robert’s knee.

 _Sometimes words have two meanings_ , Robert thought to himself, trying to calm his wildly thumping heart. He wanted to say No, he hadn’t misread the situation, either with the band, or with Robert himself, but the words froze in his mouth. Jimmy’s hand burned into his leg. His knee tensed, quivered underneath it, and Jimmy rubbed his leg soothingly and then it was clear that his words had a very specific meaning. 

_In for a penny, in for a pound_ , he thought as he kissed him. Soft lips met his gently, slow and thoughtful. Jimmy was not surprised by this, and it definitely was not unwelcome. His lips covered Robert’s; his kiss grew just a little less gentle. 

“I thought not,” he said, answering his own question. He slid closer to Robert, so that their thighs touched. And then he placed his fingertips possessively on Robert’s jaw and turned his face towards him, traced a finger over Robert’s mouth. 

Since it had gone so nicely the first time, they kissed again. And again. Jimmy’s hand quite naturally came up and rested on the back of Robert’s head, held him as they kissed, and Jimmy’s breath came a little faster, and Robert’s pulse quickened, and finally with a tiny moan Jimmy’s velvet tongue licked Robert’s lips, he opened his mouth, and the kiss grew hotter, wetter, deeper as their tongues twined together. 

“Oh, honey,” Jimmy sighed. “I’ve wanted to do this since I first laid eyes on you. Since I first heard you sing.”

Robert was drugged with the sweet, fiery kisses. He wondered again if he was under some enchanted spell, but of course, such notion was ridiculous, as compared with the far more likely explanation: the man was gorgeous, he kissed divinely, and he played guitar like a hellbound angel. How could he not fall for him?

Jimmy hadn’t stopped pushing the swing, but his pushes became more erratic as the kiss grew more passionate, as his hand gripped the back of Robert’s neck, tangled in his curls, buried his fingers there. “Oh, Rob, oh, honey,” he sighed, and kissed him madly, and finally he was too distracted to push the swing, which stopped rocking as his leg fell limp. 

Robert unbuttoned Jimmy’s loose white shirt with shaking fingers. He slipped a hand inside, touching his warm body, stroking his hands up the rippled abdomen, the narrow ribcage. He rubbed his nipples under his warm palm and felt the tremble in his lips as he kissed him. He stroked his chest, felt his heartbeat, which was as rapid as his own. 

Jimmy leaned forward, rested his lips on Robert’s neck, sending his stomach into a wild swirl. Jimmy kissed his way up his neck, slow, shivery kisses that made him pant, and then he whispered in his ear, “Come to bed with me, darling boy.” 

He started to kiss his answer, but Jimmy took his hand as he rose, picking up the water pipe with him as well as the candle. Holding the candle aloft like a prince in a fairy tale, he led him up the stairs and to his richly-decorated bedroom. With a conspiratorial smile he led him through the door and into the sanctum to which Robert had secretly craved admittance.


	3. You Shook Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the summer of 1968, Robert Plant joins Jimmy Page’s new band, and sparks fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mainly filthy, shameless porn. Don't say you weren't warned.

The canopy bed was neatly-made, its scarlet draperies tied back with satin cording; the thick green carpet soft under his feet. Jimmy set down the candle and the pipe on an elaborate dresser, carved with Chinese designs, topped with a mirror. Then he turned to Robert and held out his arms, and Robert came into them quite naturally. He could feel the heat of his body, and as Jimmy clasped him, also the stiffness in his velvet trousers, which caused an immediate and sympathetic reaction in Robert’s own groin. 

They stood and kissed and Robert would never tire of it, those sweet rosy lips, the way Jimmy softly panted as the kiss became intoxicating, and his arms clasped Robert tightly to him, wrapped around his waist, sank lower to press against his arse, until their erections were grinding together. 

“Oh, yes, oh, Rob,” sighed Jimmy, as if he relished saying his very name. He slid his arms upwards, underneath his tee shirt, caressing his chest, finding his nipples, rubbing and tweaking them lightly, sending fiery waves of pleasure throughout his body. He never imagined this could feel so good, but his nipples seemed to be hardwired to his cock, which stiffened and throbbed with delight as Jimmy teased him. He slid the tee shirt up, and Robert raised his arms obligingly so that he could peel it off, toss it aside. Then he drew them together again, and Robert slid the loose white shirt from his shoulders, so their bare chests were pressed together. Robert rested his lips lightly on Jimmy’s neck, kissed his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

“Oh, come to bed, come to bed,” Jimmy sighed, and led him over to the four-posted bed, richly carved and hung with scarlet brocade. Robert sat down on the tapestry bedspread. Jimmy joined him, bringing the candle, which he placed on the night-table. He leaned down and gently removed each of Robert’s leather sandals. Then he kissed him again, eagerly, as if the few seconds between this and their last kiss were just intolerable. Robert lost himself in the kiss. His mouth opened, his tongue met Jimmy’s, he was aware that he was uttering soft needy little moans. He pushed Jimmy downward until he was lying back against the pillows, and covered his body with his own. 

“Let me take off my boots!” Jimmy gasped, between kisses, and Robert sat up to slip off the elegant leather boots from each of his narrow feet, and Jimmy pulled him back down, and they ground against each other, kissing and moaning. Jimmy’s fingers circled his waist, and then he tucked his fingers below the waistband, unbuttoned the top button of his jeans, and then paused, looking deeply into his eyes, as if waiting for permission. Impatiently, Robert slid his own jeans down, and Jimmy’s fingers lightly touched his big stiff cock, grasped it gently, sending a shudder through his frame. 

“You’ve got a nice one, baby,” he breathed, Robert hard and throbbing in his hand as he tightened his grasp.

Robert flushed with pleasure. He knew his cock was bigger than most, but he enjoyed hearing Jimmy say so. He kicked off his jeans and crouched over him, one knee on each side, as Jimmy stroked him once, twice, then rhythmically, and Robert moaned and bent to kiss those sweet, pouty lips again, kissed him with open mouth and twining tongue, and Jimmy jerked him slowly, making him gasp with pleasure. 

Robert sat back, kneeling, straddling him, and unbuttoned Jimmy’s fly. The button was in the shape of a big rhinestone jewel. Underneath the flap were more buttons. Jimmy kept hold of his cock in his elegant white hand while Robert struggled with them, finally revealing the flame-red silk of Jimmy’s underwear. He pushed them down and with some difficulty got the tight velvet pants off his lean legs. At last he shucked them aside and they were both naked on the beautiful four-poster bed, behind the privacy of the rich tapestry hanging down. 

Jimmy pulled the coverlet aside. “Between the sheets, darling,” he said, and then Robert was at last lying on those snow-white sheets, with his head on the same pillows where Jimmy rested his black curls, and their legs were tangled up together. Robert lay on top, their cocks pressed together, lips pressed together, and their kisses became increasingly needy, urgent, and demanding as the friction of their slickening cocks rubbing together sent shudders of delight washing through both of them. 

Robert was enchanted with Jimmy’s slim, muscular body, his soft, pouty lips, the inky black hair that was such a startling contrast to his pale skin. His delicate beauty was nonetheless fiercely masculine. He sat up to get a better look at him, to stroke his chest, his thighs, while Jimmy looked at him with eyes half-lidded with pleasure. But there was only so long he could stop himself from kissing those beautiful lips. He kissed him deeply, and Jimmy’s soft little tongue pushed inside his open mouth, and it was so heavenly that he nearly swooned. His fingers stroked through the black curls, raked through them, curved around the back of his neck, held him tightly as they kissed. He touched his lips to the side of his neck, to his collarbone, feeling him tremble as he kissed and licked the most sensitive places. Then he kissed his way down, tonguing the sweet brown nipples, licking and nibbling gently, until Jimmy whimpered softly and his hands gripped the back of his head tightly. 

He kissed his way down to his belly, flat and rippled with muscles, and to his navel, into which he dipped his tongue ecstatically, and he paused to admire his long, stiff cock, white and smooth, rising proudly from its nest of crisp dark hair. Jimmy was hard as a rock, his cock nodding against his belly. It was a most alluring sight, and Robert’s own cock throbbed just looking at it. He had the sudden urge to put it in his mouth. Experimentally, he tongued just the head. 

“Oh, God,” Jimmy moaned. “Are you going to do it to me, honey?” His legs tensed, trembled with anticipation. In reply, Robert took his cock in his mouth, held it gently. It felt pleasantly smooth, and he sucked it lightly, relishing the feel of it, and the wanton moans that broke from Jimmy’s lips as he pushed his hips upward, drove his cock deeper into Robert’s warm, wet mouth. His hands rested on the back of Robert’s head, and then, as the pleasure mounted, he curled his fingers tightly in Robert’s hair. He panted softly _oh, oh, oh_ , as Robert’s mouth found a rhythm. He paused to tongue the swollen head, tasting the salty clear fluid that leaked from the slit, tonguing the underside, lashing it, making Jimmy cry out lustily. 

There was something immensely enjoyable about the smooth feel of Jimmy’s cock sliding in and out of his mouth, the delicious moans that broke from his pretty lips. Robert had for the first time an understanding of why the girls liked to do this, why their eyes lit up when they saw his big cock for the first time, and how nearly all of them wanted to put it in their mouths. He settled down more comfortably to his erotic labor, leaning his head on Jimmy’s thigh, sliding his tongue up and down the straining length of his cock, sucking him, making him moan and sigh as his thighs tensed and his cock throbbed in his mouth. 

He would have gladly gone on forever, but Jimmy was pulling his hair, moaning passionately, and he knew the crisis was at hand. “I’m coming!” he gasped out, jamming his cock deep into Rob’s hot and willing mouth. “Oh, honey, I’m coming. Ohhh! Ohh!” His cock jumped and throbbed and the hot salty fluid hit the back of Robert’s throat as Jimmy moaned with bliss. He kept on sucking him, milking him, until the come dripped down his lips, pooled on his belly and thighs as Jimmy thrashed about in exquisite, mindless pleasure. 

Robert did not want to let go, held him between his lips until he finally softened a bit and only then did he release his cock to kiss his hips and his come-smeared belly. He didn’t mind the taste of it, because it tasted like Jimmy, hot and salty. He slid upwards to kiss him on the lips, and to push aside the dark tendrils of hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, noting with pleasure that his face was flushed red, his breath still coming fast. 

“Baby, baby, that was delicious,” whispered Jimmy, exhausted in his pleasure. 

Robert was inordinately pleased as he lay next to him, pressed against his sticky thighs. He had never done such a thing before, now all he could think about was doing it again. Jimmy curled an arm around him, drew him close, kissed his hair. “I’m going to do it to you. Then you will see what I mean.”

“Are you sure?” asked Robert, uncertainly. He had a raging cockstand, and just thinking about Jimmy taking it in his sweet mouth set his heart to pounding, but he felt shy. Perhaps Jimmy was too tired, or maybe it was not a thing he really wanted to do. 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I got your jeans off and saw your big beautiful cock,” Jimmy whispered in his ear, making Robert flush with pleasure at the dirty compliment, and at Jimmy’s eagerness to suck him. He felt a sense of impending delight as Jimmy slid down the bed, kissed each of his hip bones, his belly and then rested his lips on his hot, full bollocks, making him quiver. And then he licked his whole hard length, up to the tip, pausing to flick his tongue against the sensitive underside. Robert’s legs trembled with the thrill of anticipation. Surely he would now take him deep into his lovely mouth. But no, Jimmy was not done teasing him. He kissed the swollen head of Robert’s dick, licked it lovingly, until Robert grabbed his head, threaded his fingers through his hair, pushed his hips impatiently, wanting so bad to feel his whole mouth upon him. 

At last his dreams came true and Jimmy slowly and softly took his whole length in his hot, wet mouth, his silky hair fanned out on his thighs as he bobbed his head, angling it just so that Robert, looking down, had a perfect view of the delectable sight of his big cock sliding into those sweet, pouty lips. With a groan he pushed his cock in and out, gripping the back of Jimmy’s head as his pleasure mounted. 

Jimmy knew just how to tease him. His dainty, darting tongue licked the underside of his cock, flicked the head, making him shiver. It was the most sensuous experience of his life, the delicious sucking and licking driving him nearly wild, the feel of Jimmy’s dark curls wrapped around his fingers as he held the back of his head, thrust his aching prick deep inside the warm wet heat of his mouth. “Baby!” he gasped out, squirming with pleasure. 

Jimmy looked up at him with sultry eyes as he sucked and tongued him. The eye contact made it so much hotter. That he was so clearly enjoying sucking him off stiffened Robert’s cock even more. He was quivering with delight, pulling Jimmy’s hair in his erotic frenzy, as Jimmy’s clever tongue licked his most sensitive spots, as his warm lips slid up and down. It was exquisite agony, too much; he would die of it. His blood surged; his heart thudded. All the pleasure in the world seemed to be focused in his throbbing prick, and then it ballooned and just exploded. With a hard groan his come gushed out into Jimmy’s mouth, flooding it, and Jimmy’s wicked little tongue lashed out to flick against the underside of his cock, dragging out his climax, teasing out every drop of his cream, making him come long and hard. He moaned in helpless bliss as looked down at his come spilling out onto Jimmy’s full red lips and darting tongue, a gorgeous sight that he would never forget. 

“Ohhh… oh, darling!” he sighed, as the last throbs and thrills pulsed throughout his trembling body. Jimmy didn’t let him up, kept his cock wedged in his hot mouth until it was too much and Robert with a moan pushed his head away. “Come here,” he said. “I want to kiss that sweet mouth of yours.” 

Jimmy slid up and they exchanged wet kisses, tasting each other, the salt and the sweat of their physical passion. “Not bad, eh?” said Jimmy, with just a trifle bit of smugness.

“Fantastic!” Robert said, kissing and kissing him. They lay back, head to head, exhausted and satisfied. 

“I’ll go get cigarettes. I’ve got to piss anyway.” Jimmy slid out of bed, put on his dressing gown (green and maroon striped silk, as elegant as the rest of him), and went out into the corridor into the bathroom. Robert heard the water running, and then Jimmy came out into the hallway and there was the sound of drawers opening. 

He returned with a glass of water, a washcloth, and a pack of Marlboros. “Here,” he said, and wiped Robert’s belly and thighs tenderly, and did the same to himself, then tossed the washcloth into a laundry hamper. He handed Robert the glass of water, and he drank gratefully. It turned out that sucking Jimmy off was thirsty work. Jimmy took the empty water glass and put it on a night-table. He shook out a cigarette, offered it to Robert. 

“I don’t usually smoke in bed, but this is a special occasion,” Jimmy said as he lit their cigarettes. 

“What’s the occasion?” Robert asked stupidly. 

“You are the special occasion, darling,” Jimmy said, looking at him steadily, blowing a thin stream of smoke from his mouth. “You in my bed, I mean,” he added, although his meaning had been clear. He rubbed Robert’s thigh affectionately, high up, on the inside, close enough to his cock to be just the slightest bit possessive. 

Robert felt that lurch of his stomach that he recognized as the first flush of love. What else could explain that ecstasy, the rapture he felt when Jimmy was teasing the come out of him with his hot little tongue? He had never felt an orgasm like that before. Then, too, was the delight he took in blowing Jimmy, sucking his smooth white cock, making him moan and pull his hair as he writhed with pleasure. He simply couldn’t wait to do it again. And on top of all that, his beautiful face, the coal-black shadow of his hair, the pouty, cherry-red lips, there was also his guitar, the way he played it, savagely ferocious one moment, soft and crooning the next. And his strange home on the river, the foppish way he dressed, embroidered coats and bright silk scarves, all that velvet and lace, and his soft, posh voice saying those dirty things. He was the most fascinating man he had ever met. 

They had been quiet for some time, smoking in silence, but Jimmy did not ask him what he was thinking or comment on it in any way. The silence was so comfortable that when they had finished their cigarettes, Jimmy blew out the candle and without a word turned to him for a close, intimate embrace. He kissed Robert’s lips lightly and whispered good-night, and Robert, as if he had been put under a spell, felt himself drifting off to dreamland, feeling deliciously secure and cozy wrapped in Jimmy’s arms.

Robert woke first, and for a moment did not know where he was, until he saw the sleeping black head next to him. He thought of their passionate evening together with a shiver of remembered delight. Those dreamy, intoxicating kisses, sucking his sweet brown nipples, making him spill in his mouth, and then Jimmy’s cherry lips wrapped around his own dick, velvet tongue milking the come out of him. He was stiffening just thinking about it, so he distracted himself by getting up, borrowing Jimmy’s robe, and making his way to the bathroom. He cleaned his teeth, washed his face, and had another piss in Jimmy’s ridiculously fancy marble toilet.

Jimmy still did not stir, so he made his way down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He found some coffee and scooped it into the percolator, found a teabag for himself, an actual teabag in a box tucked in grudgingly with the Assam and the Lapsang Souchang. Coffee for Jimmy, with two sugars, the way he had seen him take it. A steaming cup of tea with milk for himself. He brought both cups upstairs to the master bedroom and put them on the night-table. He sat down on the bed, and the motion made Jimmy stir and look at him sleepily. 

“Am I dreaming?” he mumbled, sitting up, his hair adorably disheveled.

“No, we’re both awake.” He handed him the coffee.

“Did we sleep together last night? I mean….” He broke off awkwardly and took a long sip of coffee to hide his discomposure. 

“We did a lot more than sleep.” Robert reassured him with a kiss, and then another, and each had just a little more bite than the one before. When Jimmy opened his mouth, he slipped his tongue inside and they exchanged wet, soul-stirring kisses until Robert felt his breath come short and an undeniable heat in his groin.

“Come back to bed,” Jimmy murmured, and this seemed like a fine idea to Robert. He slipped out of the robe and back between the sheets, and Jimmy came into his arms, full of more of those maddeningly sweet open-mouthed kisses. Their bare legs wrapped together, then their hips and torsos, and Robert felt Jimmy’s fine morning cockstand poking his thigh. 

“Morning wood,” Robert breathed. His own cock was suddenly hot and full of blood. 

“Yes. What are we going to do about it?” 

“Why don’t you fuck me?” Robert breathed out, surprising himself. He hadn’t realized he wanted it until the words left his mouth. 

“Oh, God, really, darling? Yes, oh, yes!”

“I’ve never done it before,” Robert admitted. 

“Neither have I,” said Jimmy. Robert laughed. Here he’d been counting on Jimmy to guide the way. Somehow he was relieved that Jimmy was as inexperienced as he was. 

“Have you got something slippery?” 

Jimmy opened the night-table drawer, rummaged around, came up with a tiny bottle of hand lotion from a fashionable American hotel. He handed it to Robert, who squeezed out a long line of it across Jimmy’s hard cock. It was an erotic sight, the long white cock covered with a creamy stripe, dripping onto his belly, onto the crisp dark hairs covering his bollocks. 

Robert rubbed the lotion in, making his cock slick and slippery, and even harder. Then he was struck with a sudden, filthy urge to ride him. He crouched over him and positioned the tip over his tight hole.

“Is this the easiest way to do it?” Jimmy asked uncertainly. 

“Girls seem to like it this way,” Robert said, with more confidence than he felt. He had succeeded in getting the tip of his cock inside, and he gently eased his bottom down, inch by inch, taking him slowly. Jimmy shuddered and grabbed his hips as he felt his cock slowly engulfed in the tight heat. Robert paused, breathing hard.

“Does my big cock hurt you?” Jimmy asked, his voice strained.

It didn’t, not really, but he was beginning to understand something of Jimmy’s dark and lustful tendencies. So breathed out _Yes_ , to please him. The light and shade he talked about referred to more than music. He sank himself deeper down, until he was utterly skewered on the big hard pole. He felt delicious pressure, almost unbearable, but his cock was stiff and throbbing with delight. 

“Oh, baby,” breathed Jimmy as he felt Robert bottoming out, felt his arse settle on top of his hips. “I’m too much for you.” 

“I can take it,” Robert said, and he gave a gentle bounce, and felt Jimmy’s cock scrape against the sweet spot. With a helpless groan, he jogged his hips up and down, feeling the hot molten pleasure spreading from his burning fundament to his trembling hips and thighs. He pumped faster, and his stiffening cock slapped against Jimmy’s belly with an obscenely sexual noise.

He looked down; Jimmy’s eyes were closed, face flushed, his beautiful mouth half-open as he panted with bliss. Robert leaned down to kiss him, shifting his cock to an even more pleasurable position. They exchanged wet tongue-kisses, and Jimmy’s hands slipped around to grab the cheeks of Robert’s arse, gripping them tightly as Robert bounced up and down on his rigid dick.

“That’s right, honey,” he murmured. “Ride me hard.” Robert braced one hand against the mattress, and the other he slipped around Jimmy’s neck, bringing his mouth closer for kissing with a lot of teeth and tongue. He was on fire, unraveling with the newfound sensation, the deep-down, white-hot pleasure of being fucked by a man.

Jimmy’s fingers delicately traced his nipples, stroking them at first, then pinching them hard, making him gasp, making his cock throb. Whimpering with lust, he began to ride in earnest, driving Jimmy’s long, hard cock even deeper inside himself, making the bedsprings creak. His swollen cock dripped a trail of glittering clear fluid onto Jimmy’s stomach as he rode him.

“How do you like getting fucked?” Jimmy asked breathlessly. He hadn’t let go of his nipples, continued to pinch them as he thrust, making them ache sweetly. He grabbed Robert’s arse again, slapped it playfully

“So good, baby,” Robert whispered. It was wild. Jimmy was driving into him mercilessly, pumping his hips as Robert bounced and rode on top of him, feeling his pleasure mount, an unspeakable bliss spiraling outward from the very depths of his being. “So good,” he panted again. He began to moan loudly, shamelessly, wantonly, as Jimmy thrust his hips in time so that his cock hit the spot, the very spot, that made his own cock ache exquisitely, as if it were being stroked from the inside out. 

Robert leaned down for hot, open-mouthed, passionate kisses, as the warmth spread outward through his body. He felt a deep-down delight as Jimmy’s hard cock stabbed him, reamed him out, took away the last barrier of privacy between himself and his mysterious dark-haired lover. He braced his hands on Jimmy’s chest, cried out as rode him roughly, hearing Jimmy gasping and moaning beneath him, looking deeply into his lust-fogged eyes, before bending down to exchange more kisses rough with teeth and tongue. 

Though he was on top, he was not in charge, that much was clear when Jimmy began to fuck him hard, grabbing his arse cheeks, thrusting madly against him, sending a wave of delicious heat throughout his scraped channel. Robert cried out with mingled pain and pleasure.

“Will you come for me, baby?” Jimmy whispered. _Yes, yes_ , Robert moaned, as he sank down on that impossibly hard cock, felt it fill him to his depths, as the fiery pleasure tore through him and with a sob of delight he began to shoot. His thighs wrapped around Jimmy’s, gripped him fiercely, his feet scrabbled against the bedclothes as his cock jetted huge spurts all the way up to Jimmy’s chest. 

His climax seemed to go on for ages, and he trembled and panted as he spurted and spurted. While he was still coming he felt Jimmy’s increasing thrusts, and the way he gripped his arse tightly, and when he looked down, he saw his lovely face contorted with pleasure, as with a moan of pure bliss, Jimmy shot his come deep inside him, and that made him groan again as the little throbs washed over him, and his cock pulsed out the very last of his come into the huge and creamy puddle all over Jimmy’s belly and chest. 

He collapsed down on top of Jimmy, utterly wrung-out. He sought out a kiss, a sweet, spent, satisfied kiss, as he felt his shattered heartbeat and stuttering breath start to return to normal. Jimmy was equally drained, kissed him with tired lips. They were both sticky, coated with sweat and come, and Robert reveled in it, loving the feel of the slickness he had spurted all over Jimmy’s chest. 

“That was heavenly,” said Jimmy. He slipped his hand between their bodies, felt the pool on his chest with satisfaction. “I made you come so hard, baby.” Robert at last slid off his body, feeling too hot, and he lay next to him on the bed, his chest still heaving with exertion. Jimmy fished around in the night-table until he came up with a clean white handkerchief. Robert noticed that it was monogrammed, his initials in neat black script in a corner. Jimmy carefully wiped Robert off, his cock, between his thighs, and then he mopped up the puddle on his own chest. He neatly folded the damp handkerchief into a square and set it aside. Robert wondered what he was going to do with it. Save it as a memento, perhaps. 

“You wore me out,” admitted Robert. “I can barely move. Now I understand what ‘fucking your brains out’ means.” 

Jimmy leaned over, kissed the top of his head, and moved his curls aside to kiss his ear, and his neck. Robert found himself dozing off, and soon Jimmy joined him, for a post-coital nap, but they were young and strong, and so they only napped for an hour before Jimmy had awoken again, was sipping at the cold cup of coffee, and Robert soon stirred as well, wanting a hot shower and a hot cup of tea. 

Jimmy led him to his own bathroom, not the one he had used in the hallway, but a magnificent room that led right off the master bedroom, with black-and-white tiles and gold faucets and a deep marble bath and separate glass-walled shower, which they entered together. Jimmy took pleasure in washing him, scrubbing his body with a natural sea sponge, even washing his hair tenderly. They kissed under the spray, and Robert had never felt so loved and protected as when they emerged and Jimmy wrapped him in a huge fluffy white towel. 

In the kitchen, Robert put the kettle on, fresh coffee grounds in the percolator, and Jimmy insisted that he have a proper pot of brewed tea. They sat at the table, clad only in towels wrapped around their waists, looking at each other with unspoken delight. Robert would never tire of gazing into those tawny, green-gold eyes. He wished he didn’t have to say it, but he told Jimmy he would go home today. 

“You don’t have to leave. Stay with me as long as you want to,” said Jimmy, taking his hand, stroking it affectionately. _Forever_ seemed to hang in the air unspoken.

“I have to pick up my paycheck,” Robert explained. “And, uh, I never actually quit the road job, so I should probably explain why I didn’t show up. Also, I’m out of clean clothes.” 

“I supposed you better settle up with the job,” sighed Jimmy, who disliked untidy loose ends in business matters. “Will you come back to me?” he asked wistfully.

“Just as soon as I can,” promised Robert, kissing him. “Let me make you breakfast first.”

He wasn’t as good at the stove as was Jimmy, but there was one thing he knew how to make well. He took two golden apples from the bowl on Jimmy’s counter, peeled and sliced them, put them into a cast-iron pan with butter and sautéed them until they were soft. Then he mixed flour and egg and milk into a thin batter and poured it all around the apples. Jimmy watched, fascinated, as he waited for the batter to set and then flipped the pancake over. When the bottom had set, he sprinkled the top with sugar and added more butter, then flipped it again. And again, with more butter, more sugar, flipping it over and over, until the pancake had formed a caramel crust and a soft, custardy inside. He cut it in half, slid each piece onto a plate, and brought them over to the table. 

“This is delicious,” said Jimmy. “I’ve never had this before. What’s it called?”

“I just call it apple pancake. I don’t know if it has another name. Me mum always made it for me on special occasions. Birthdays and so forth.”

“It is a special occasion,” Jimmy agreed. “You in my bed. What could be more special than that!” He had said something similar the day before, and Robert flushed with pleasure. 

“I have to dress and get going,” he said regretfully when they had finished.

“The trains run at half-past the hour. I’ll take you to the station,” Jimmy said. 

“Do you have a car?” asked Robert, surprised. He hadn’t seen one in the driveway. 

“Better. Get dressed and I’ll show you.” 

They went upstairs, Robert to the blue guest room to put on his last clean tee-shirt, Jimmy to his master bedroom. When he emerged, Robert was delighted to see him dressed casually for the first time. Slim-fitting jeans, a tee-shirt emblazoned with the name of a local chip shop, and tennis shoes. He met Robert at the top of the stairs and pulled him into an embrace. 

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” he murmured, kissing him. 

“The sooner I leave, the sooner I can come back,” Robert explained. 

Jimmy led him down the stairs to the back of the house, to yet another narrow, low-ceiled corridor. The house seemed to be full of them. Robert felt a damp freshness to the air as Jimmy led him to a room that was filled with water. Steps led down to where a rowboat was moored. 

“The river is in your house!” he exclaimed. 

“It’s a boat slip,” Jimmy told him. “All these river houses have one. I’ll row you to the station. Give me your bag,” he said, and Robert handed over the canvas bag. Jimmy went down to the steps, stashed it in the boat, and held out his hand to help Robert in. He unmoored it, and they drifted out to the Thames, and then Jimmy settled himself onto the wooden bench and began to row him in the direction of the train station. 

Robert sat facing him, watching him, enchanted with the scene. Mist hung low over the river, the breeze was refreshing, and the sound of Jimmy’s oars sinking into the water was oddly tranquil. Feeling like a boy in a fairy tale, he watched his dark prince rowing him, lean, muscular arms pulling through the water, shoulders bunching under the tee shirt. He wished he didn’t have to go, but he needed his paycheck to tide him over until the band started paying him the 25 pounds a week. More than he had to formally quit laying tar, and he flushed with pleasure to think of how his life had changed for the better in just a few short days.

They were at the station, and Jimmy had rowed him up to the stone steps leading to the street. “This is your stop,” he said. Robert stood up, collected his bag, but Jimmy grabbed his hand and pulled him into a kiss. “Good-bye, darling. I can’t wait to see you again,” he murmured, and kissed him passionately, holding the back of his head, kissing him until Robert was breathless and of half-a-mind to tell him to row them back, back to the bedroom where he had experienced such unspeakable bliss. 

“I’ll be back just as soon as can,” he said as he finally pulled himself away, and walked up the steps to the street, and then to the platform, with only a moment to spare as he saw the train puffing around the bend, pulling into the station. He looked down to the river; Jimmy was still there, watching him go. He waved, and Jimmy blew him a kiss, and he was still there as he boarded the train and found an empty car. He wasn’t thinking about his paycheck, or telling the job he had to quit, or his shabby little bed-sit above the pub. All he could think about was Jimmy, his sweet red lips, his blue-black hair, and most of all his fiercely wild guitar-playing. He wanted to shout his name to the whole car, but contented himself with whispering it to himself, _Jimmy Page, Jimmy Page. I will return again_. The conductor overheard him talking to himself as he approached to take his ticket, but he took one look at his wild hair and faded jeans and dismissed him as just another drug-addled hippy, not knowing that love is the most potent drug of all.

**Author's Note:**

> "What it was with Zeppelin was it was like these four individuals, but this collective energy made this fifth element. I'd had moments of elation with groups before, but nothing as intense as that. It was like a thunderbolt, a lightning flash...."
> 
> \- Jimmy Page
> 
> "We were very lucky. For a period of time, Jimmy and I were made for each other."
> 
> \- Robert Plant


End file.
